With what contentment in its ordered ways
The rhomboid goes, with what assurance fine
The parallelopiped stands on space,
Fixed and definitive in every line!
Here is security, precise and sweet,
Since lines drawn parallel can never meet.
Curves are the road of change. The humblest peach,
That ripens now and in a week decays,
Hangs like the moon as round and out of reach.
Something eludes us even while we gaze.
And common hearts get strangely out of hand,
Running on curves no compass ever planned.